by Brian Lumley
“Cave?” Manoza grinned knowingly. “That’s exactly the kind of word I wanted to hear. The kind of place Francesco’s looking for.” He straightened the chopper up, leaned her the other way, took a good look for himself. And: “This has to be it!” he nodded excitedly. “Almost inaccessible, and who would want to come here anyway? High as hell, and cold and hollow as old Katerin’s tits. But it’s granite; it isn’t about to cave in just yet.” He marked a map taped to his control panel, straightened his machine up again and followed the course of the ravine back towards Aviemore.
“That’s it?” Potenza sounded disappointed, petulant.
“For now,” Manoza told him. “But be patient, Frank. I’ve a feeling we’ll be seeing action soon enough. Between now and nightfall, for sure …”
Two hours earlier:
At his old house in Bonnyrig, the Necroscope Harry Keogh had slept well despite last night’s sense of urgency, the feeling that he stood upon the brink of something vast, awesome and dangerous; slept well despite all feelings of breathless expectancy and weird anticipation; despite all of those things, and last but not least his inexplicable terror of tomorrow.
But now it was tomorrow. The light of day, of morning, had brought him awake from a dreamless state where all his mind had wanted to do—and all it had done—was rest. But in the final moments of awakening, as had been so often the case, that restless urgency reasserted itself. And floating up from subconscious wells of mind, the lines of what could only be three especially relevant quatrains stood out as clear in his memory as if freshly planted there:
She is her master’s kennel-maid.
His castle is a hollow place and high;
his bed is yellow, glowing where he laid
himself to rest who would not die.
With numbers and with solar heat and grave-cold,
with mordant acids, and his friends in low society,
and alchemical thunder; with all of these, behold!
He may transmute impurity to peace and piety!
He knows!—yet may not know, until set free
by the kennel-maid; he sees, yet may not understand,
until this Pretty’s eyes search out the treachery,
in the dog that would bite its keeper’s hand …
And the Necroscope knew that he did know, yet didn’t and couldn’t know, until set free by this Pretty, this Bonnie Jean Mirlu. But set free of what? In what way, set free? Free in his body? That wasn’t going to be easy. Oh, he had had his doubts, but what had they come to in the end? Only the realization that he loved her. Set free of that? No, he didn’t want that kind of freedom, would much rather stay a prisoner. Or … set free in his mind, to be his own man again? Now that was something else.
While breakfasting but not tasting anything, he remembered something else. Or rather, he knew it without knowing how: that today was the day. He felt it, could feel it even now, over … there! And he looked at a blank wall. But that’s where it was, whatever it was that was tugging at him.
And the feeling was so strong—the urge, the compulsion—to go to B.J., right now, that after washing his meal down with the dregs of a pot of strong black coffee, he went out into the garden to look for it. The sign.
And there it was, low on the horizon where Harry had known he would find it: the full moon, hanging pale in the wintry sky. And yes, of course this was the day. And tonight was most certainly the night. The night of the full moon …
Harry knew where B.J. and her girls would be, and he must go to her. God, he wanted desperately to go to her, right now! But (and he clenched his teeth, forcing his mind away from that), first there were preparations he must attend to.
Certain words from the quatrains repeated in his head:
Numbers, solar heat, grave-cold, mordant acids, friends in low society, and alchemical thunder. Using all of these things, he could put right what was wrong.
Numbers: not numerology this time but metaphysics, Möbius maths, of course. Solar heat: the ultimate weapon against whatever it was that was waiting for him … which was something he still didn’t dare concentrate on. Friends in low society, and grave cold? Well they were one and the same thing, and what they were was obvious. As for “mordant acids,” that had him baffled; but at least he had some knowledge of alchemical thunder. He’d seen plenty of that on the night the Chateau Bronnitsy fell. He knew how to make alchemical thunder, or the chemical sort anyway … but alchemical to Nostradamus in his day and age. And if Harry didn’t know, he had plenty of friends in low society who did.
Harry knew where to go and what to “borrow.” He was familiar with the interior of several ammunition dumps and magazines And if there was something new that he might take a fancy to—something he might have difficulty figuring out—well, there were plenty of bomb-disposal people among the Great Majority to help him out. Or ex-people, anyway.
By midday he had everything he needed, except maybe a little extra time. But time to do what? Worry about what had to be done, and what he was going to do anyway, come what may? And at last, kitted out in much the same rig as he’d worn for that job at Le Manse Madonie—black track-suit and black canvas shoes, black T-shirt and an ex-Army web belt with canvas pouch attachments—he was ready. The only additions he had made, in deference to the weather, were thick black socks and a heavy, black woollen commando-style pullover. Finally he thought about a gun, then decided against it. Go up against armed killers with a gun (if that’s what he was going up against, and it could well be), and they weren’t going to try to take him prisoner …
And at last it was time for the “wee puppy” to go and see the kennel-maid. He took the Möbius route into the undergrowth at the edge of a copse to one side of Auld John’s cottage in Inverdruie. It was sheer guesswork; not the co-ordinates—for he still remembered those from that time when he and B.J. had visited the old gillie—but that she would be there. But obviously B.J. would have to have a starting place, and she was probably relying on Auld John, so his cottage in Inverdruie seemed the best bet.
And Harry was right, it was his best bet—and his worst—and he’d landed right in the middle of it!
A big black Mercedes saloon was parked on the service road with its nose pointing in the direction of the main road and Aviemore. From what the Necroscope could see, no one was in it. In the cottage: downstairs, the curtains were drawn. Upstairs, faces and figures—female, he thought—flitted before small windows. Occasionally, and cautiously, a figure would pause to look out, but briefly and always from the side. The reason was simple: the place was under siege.
Outside, a man splashed petrol from a heavy plastic container all around the perimeter of the house, but especially on wooden fixtures such as doors, windows, the timbered frame and a lean-to firewood store. Covered by a second man with a machine-pistol, who crouched not twenty paces from Harry behind the boles of a clump of silver birches, the would-be arsonist kept low; he seemed eager to get done. And he, too, had an automatic weapon slung from his shoulder.
Harry gave a moment’s study to the house. In the wall facing him, a single-paned kitchen window. He could of course make a Möbius jump directly into the house, but that would mean he’d probably be seen “materializing” by those inside—B.J. and the girls, he presumed—or at least raise awkward questions. That wouldn’t do; he couldn’t display his talents to anyone; and the man with the petrol was moving now round a corner of the front-facing wall of the house, slopping fuel as he went.
And suddenly B.J. was there at an open window almost directly over the arsonist’s head. Twisting her body, leaning far out of the narrow space, she aimed her crossbow—at which the Necroscope heard the dull but vicious phut! phut! of a silenced weapon. The man in the birches had taken out a pistol, was aiming and firing across his arm. His bullets spanged off the wall close to B.J.’s head, spoiling her aim as she squeezed the trigger of her weapon and causing her to duck inside. And now Harry wished he’d given more thought to carrying a gun.
Harry had seen more than enough; he knew what he must do; and in the brief moment of time that he would be visible to the sniper … well, he would sooner face single shots from a hastily aimed pistol than a burst from a machine-gun! And conjuring a door, he entered the Möbius Continuum …
… And exited on the far side of the Mercedes. From this angle he could see the bonnet of Sandra’s car sticking out from behind the house. So the Merc was theirs—the people who held B.J. in siege—and the driver’s door was open. It took just a second or so to set the timer on a small but deadly item no bigger than a packet of cigarettes, and deposit it under the driver’s seat. Then Harry used the Continuum again …
… And emerged running, not five paces from the house and its kitchen window. Diving forward and up in a curving trajectory, he rolled, curled himself into a ball, hit the window with his shoulder and went through the glass onto the kitchen table, which gave under his weight. In the moment it took to disengage from the mess of torn curtains and wreckage, hurried footsteps sounded on the stairs, and also from a corridor leading to the back of the house. And: “B.J.!” he yelled. “It’s me, Harry!”
Three seconds later and the kitchen door flew open; B.J. stood there, hair awry and slanted eyes blazing a furious yellow in the unlit, winter gloom of the house. Her crossbow was pointing into the room, aimed directly at Harry, until she saw that it really was him and applied the safety. Then she was in his arms and her breathing a sob—of relief, he knew, but for him, not for herself—as she crushed to him, her face in the crook of his neck and her body straining against his … for a moment.
Then she pulled away and, as Harry’s eyes adjusted to the light, she even turned away, as if to hide something. The Necroscope was fairly sure he knew what she was hiding … but he dared not let himself dwell on that. He stepped forward and was right behind B.J. when she started to say, “Harry, mah—” until he slapped his hand over her mouth.
“No!” he said. “I’m already switched on, B.J.—as far as I want to be, anyway. And, believe me, I can work better without it. Trust me.” He gave her a little shake. “Trust me, OK?”
For a moment he felt her furious strength; it was in her, live—like the contained hum of a giant dam’s dynamos—the only sign of the power raging within, and B.J.’s hand where it grasped his wrist felt like an iron band. But then she relaxed, pulled his fingers free, said: “All right—all right, Harry!” Then, turning to him, she was B.J. again. “But where have you been? You, and John, too. I don’t know where John is!”
He shook his head, licked his dry lips. “B.J., there’s no time for any of that, not now. Do you have any other weapons?” He took the crossbow from her.
“Upstairs, a shotgun,” she said.
“Then go … go now! Cover me, from upstairs.”
Her eyes went wide in fear, for him. “Harry, I—”
“—It’s what I do, remember?”
She bit her lip, nodded, and went.
As soon as she was out of the room he smashed some loose glass from the window, simulating an exit, and departed via a Möbius door back to the copse. The entire episode in the house had taken only half a minute at most. And the man with the petrol was just finishing up. Tossing the container to the ground, he fumbled in his pockets left-handed for a cigarette lighter.
Harry saw a glint of metal in the man’s hand, thumbed the safety off the crossbow, pointed it, and let fly. The bolt flew true—or as true as it had been aimed—struck home in almost the same place as B.J.’s bolt. It jerked its target upright and pinned his shoulder to the wall of the house. And the cigarette lighter went flying. This time the man yelped his agony … yet a moment later he was jerking his body from side to side, snapping the hard-wood bolt, and staggering away from the cottage towards the Mercedes! He’d had enough, but he was still on his feet.
And now Harry was indeed “switched on”—he knew exactly what he was dealing with here. Vampires!
But suddenly lead wasps were buzzing to left and right of him, followed by the tell-tale phut! phut! of silenced fire. The man in the birches had stepped clear of the trees; in a crouch, he was firing at Harry. Then, from the open upstairs window, a single shotgun blast, which did the trick. The distance was too great to do permanent damage, but still the man with the pistol leaped and cavorted as his long overcoat was blown open. And a moment later he, too, was running for the Mercedes.
Harry stepped deeper into the copse, where unseen he conjured a Möbius door. It took him to the road, where he crouched down behind snow-clad bushes and took a transmitter from one of the ammunition pouches on his belt. The Mercedes went rocketing by, and Harry let it go a half-mile before jumping ahead of it. Why he didn’t simply extend the transmitter’s antenna and press the button he couldn’t say. But so far his actions in this business—whatever it was about—had been covert, and he wanted to keep them that way. Maybe that was it. As for his powers … well, these creatures were hardly going to be talking to anyone about his use of the Möbius Continuum, were they? Not when they were in the Continuum. And not when they were deep in the shit!
The Merc came blazing, and Harry stepped out into the road in front of it. They saw him and maybe even recognized him, and the driver grinned and kept right on coming. Harry had set the timer on his bomb for just three seconds, time enough to prepare himself and turn his face from the blast. But that had been when he was thinking in mundane terms, and now he wasn’t. This wasn’t going to happen in mundane space and time.
He had learned a new trick when Zahanine was murdered—or terminated? —in his house at Bonnyrig. He knew about Zahanine now and accepted it: that it hadn’t been a dream. The stains on his floor hadn’t been a dream, anyway. And he knew where he had taken her body, and how. A new trick, yes.
The car bore down on him, and the driver’s mouth was open in a ghastly, gaping laugh of pure pleasure. So Harry laughed, too, and conjured a door big enough to take the whole car. And a split-second before the car disappeared, he pressed the button on his transmitter. Then—throwing up an arm and turning away, even the Necroscope, unable to accept that a ton of hurtling metal was simply going to vanish at his command—he gritted his teeth and half-closed his eyes. And in so doing, omitted to collapse the door.
One-hundred … two-hundred … three-hundred—
—There was a muffled roar, and an explosion as if from far, far away; a sound or feeling more in the mind than in the real world. And then a very real sound: a clanging, clattering, skittering, metallic sort of sound.
Harry opened his eyes. Above the road, a red lick of fire that burned itself out as it rose through a ring of smoke. And in the air—spinning end over end, bounding one last time as it hit the road and flew sideways to scythe among the roadside trees—the twisted, smouldering rear fender of the Mercedes. Nothing more than that.
And the Necroscope gave a small shudder as he pictured it: in the Möbius Continuum, a meteorite shooting through the endless night, its fireball winking out, and a cloud of shattered debris—plastic and metal and flesh and blood—going nowhere, and taking forever to do it …
Half an hour earlier:
Auld John Guiney, Alan-on-the-Moor, and Garth Trevalin had arrived on the crumbling, striated and wind-scarred dome of the rock over the cavern system of Radu’s redoubt. Rusty pitons hidden under shards of stone had told a tale, pointed the way, and were still usable. Ropes had been lowered into the throat of a black, echoing pothole, down which the men had slithered, descending into the hollow, unhallowed skull of the mountain.
And in the gloomy, cavern-riddled world below, John had led the others deeper still into the secret heart of the rock—to Radu Lykan’s resting place.
At the dog-Lord’s sarcophagus on its platform of stony rubble, John and the others had climbed to the rim and looked down on Him. His outline had been dim, vague, blurred by his bath of glutinous resin and the cracked, dusty yellow crust on its surface. But where the blot of his head was situated, the darkness glowed with twin areas of red light. And:
“It’s like some kind o’ weird womb,” John had explained in a throaty whisper. “Surrounding our Master, a thin envelope of fluids that replenishes itsel’ by drawing off the essence, the preservative powers, o’ the resin.”
“And he lives?” Young Garth had been awed by the wonder of it. “After all these years?”
“Are his eyes no open?” John had answered reverently. “Has he no spoken tae ye, tae a’ o’ us, calling tae us wi’ his mind? Oh, he lives, laddie, aye. The nicht … we’ll see him up, and be his loyal subjects for a’ time: immortals among common men! But time’s wasting. So let’s be at it the noo.”
Then he’d freshened and set fire to the flambeaux in their sockets about the base of Radu’s stone coffin, and warned young Garth: “Yere task now, Garth. Tae keep yere eye on they torches there. And when the warm resin starts tae drip frae the outlets, tae ensure the flame does’nae jump. This resin’s the stuff that blazes up in auld pine logs … It does’nae take verra much tae set it afire. But it’s a comfortable wee job. Ye can have yeresel’ a snack from yere pack, and Ah’ve something here that will warm ye up no end. A drop o’ red wine. Aye, guid for the blood, so it is …”
From his own pack John had taken a bottle of wine, popped the cork, poured the thick, resinous stuff into their drinking mugs. Then a toast as they’d drained it away: “Here’s to Radu! Long has He waited, and long may He reign!”
“To Radu!” they’d echoed him, not noticing or used now to the gleam of fervour in John’s yellow eyes. But he’d poured himself the merest drop, and then scarcely touched it …